


reunion

by VOREYEURISM



Category: Antizeroes / Lucid Project, Deluge Pointe
Genre: Deluge Pointe AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14744984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VOREYEURISM/pseuds/VOREYEURISM
Summary: By the time Dimitri is able to track Ouroboros down, they had already moved to a new town with Killer Girl. Dimitri just haunts them at first, stalks them around (because— let’s be fair— he was extremely nervous to meet them again), but easily discovers that they’re kind of… taken. :^)





	reunion

**Author's Note:**

> i am posting this here b/c i am absolutely a tool and also AO3 is more optimal for re-reading my own fic of my own OCs on my phone

The bitter realisation stings like a blow to the chest. Ouroboros swore themself to him, promised they’d do anything for him, and yet here they are having the nerve to fuck around and be happy with some mediocre little _bitch_?

No, maybe he’s overreacting. It was _him_ who cut things off with them, after all, not the other way around. As much as he’s loathe to admit it, they deserve to be happy with someone. Even if that someone isn’t him.

(But _fuck_ if he didn’t want it to be him. Fuck if he wasn’t gonna wake Xero up from this boring dream and steal them back from their fragile human _pet_.)

Instead of going about things the honest way, though, Dimitri fucks them around. He makes contact only indirectly, taking form in cryptic notes, clues for them to decypher. They realise he’s found them at last because he sneaks into their private flat (a backup, one KG doesn’t know about) while they’re away and burns “НАШЕЛ ТЕБЯ” into their bedroom floor.

( _Upon having entered the apartment and breathed in the scent of ethereal sparks and luxury cigarettes, Xero’s heart skipped a beat. It was him. It had to be him. Their usual, nearly omnipresent, composure melted away and for a heated moment they were shaking. Their dart across the hall to the bedroom would be more accurately described as a stumble, uncharacteristically uncoordinated._ )

They wonder if this is all there is— Dimitri’s acknowledgement, an instruction to lie in wait for the next sign from the false god— but there, on their bed, wedged between the mattress and the frame, is a charred business card with a time and date.

( _Ah. So a rendezvous was already set. Their Scarface really was a stickler for scheduling, wasn’t he? ♡_ )

Of course, Xero makes it to the club early. They begin to recite their name to the bouncer, but it seems the woman already recognises them— a Russian man with scars on his face has reserved a booth for them both, she explains, and shows them to the table. They anticipate Dimitri’s plans and aren’t at all surprised to see he’s absent from the table, but they are a little crestfallen.

They end up waiting there for over an hour and a few cups of absinthe before any signal from their capricious lover is received; a waitress comes and informs them they have a call. They’re more than a little giddy. And maybe a little buzzed. She takes them to an alcove on the side where a phone is waiting and they immediately snark off into the receiver, drawling out sweet, sarcastic nothings, but get no immediate reply. No, all they hear is the distant thrum of EDM. They might know the song— ah?

More intent listening comes with the recognition: it’s the same song playing over their own head. Dimitri is in the club somewhere; he’s probably been watching them the whole time.

The camera room.

( _The line was cut, and Xero sprung into motion within the next split-second. Could they make it? Would he wait around? No, no— waiting was unlike Scarface. He was playing hard to get. He wanted them to really work for him, to prove they deserved to be a figure basking in his light again. Ouroboros really wouldn’t have it any other way._

 _They barely exerted themself, but as they pushed the still-ajar door inward to reveal walls lined with screens, their heart was racing, breathing shallow. The moisture of perspiration outlined their temples, and their cold hands trembled as they smoothed their hair back._ )

Screens. Some paused— that’s significant. Further perusal indicates the numbers on the stilled monitors align to form a time and date, but the address is omitted. Their brows furrow. Where is the checkpoint?

A burner phone rests on the security guard’s table, face-up, its silhouette stark and oppressive against haphazard stacks of paper logs. That doesn’t belong here. Wherever it’s from is the next rendezvous— they just have to make it on time. They roll the device in their hand in contemplation. An old electronics store. Common. Inconspicuous. There are dozens of them scattered throughout Deluge Pointe; he wants them to painstakingly travel to every one, inquiring about the phone and its purchaser.

( _They uncovered the store with time to spare, as expected. It was them after all. Known for their annoying, unwavering persona of perfection. That wasn’t to say they had an easy time, though, no. All the stores accessible by phone or email were wrong— the burner would only be from somewhere they’d have to contact in person. How very Scarface._

_When they uncovered the correct place, they knew it right away. An old man sat at the front desk, looking like he’d inherited the shop and managed it half his life. He was Russian too._

_They showed him the phone and immediately got a confirmation— “Oh, yeah. A young man with half his face covered in scars had bought it. Very nice kid. Reminds me of my son. You know him?”_

_“You can say that. He’s an old friend. Gonna meet up soon.”_

_“Well thank him for the meat pies he brought in! My wife loved those! And him!”_

_“I will.”_ )

After they confirm it, they wait for the time in Dimitri’s instructions and arrive twenty minutes early. On cue, a delivery boy enters with a package for the old man at the counter— Russian meat pies. They can’t help but give in to the grin tugging on either side of their lips. Of course. The shopkeep remembers their presence and holds up the basket excitedly, and they move to approach, watching the transaction intently. Something is off, though— this doesn’t entirely seem like it’s meant for them.

Until the delivery boy drops some clippings of paper. Xero attempts to return them, just to be sure, but he says it isn’t his. They squint at the slips in their hand. Train tickets for tomorrow afternoon.

( _The train pulled up at the station, tracks creaking under the weight of age. It happened to be a more historic, downtown area of Deluge Pointe, all crumbling arches and twisting alleyways. Beautiful, in a dilapidated way._

_Getting off the cart presented them to a low wall spanning the length of the terminal, and sure enough there was another clue singed into a stray brick._

_“SOMEWHERE,” scrawled in Russian._

_Somewhere. So Dimitri was there, in the flesh. All they had to do was find him._ )

**+++++**

Hours pass to no avail. They wander a good portion of the district but come out empty handed; they’re either looking in the wrong places, or Dimitri’s trying not to be found. They figure it’s probably both, and pause to buy some food with a sigh.

Thirty minutes later they’ve got a warm container of bibimbap cradled in their palms and a cold seat of stone under their ass, perched on a stairwell overlooking a dingy alleyway by a motorboat-lined canal. They came out here to think. Close their eyes, focus on the flavour of kalbi and egg yolk, and assess the situation. Where could Scarface be? They’ve definitely known each other long enough for them to predict the other’s actions.

Ouroboros exhales softly, shoulders slacking. They gaze out, occupying their vision with a dove that’s landed on one of the canal’s resident boats. Another comes to join it, and their quiet cooing echoes on the water’s surface.

The wall to their right is run through by a metal pipe to accommodate for the flow of water in a rainstorm. Its rim is lined with rust, concrete stained down to the steps of the stairwell the wall runs perpendicular with. When the breeze blows in the right direction, a faint whistle might be heard.

There is no whistle right now, though.

It’s quiet over here, relatively speaking— although their senses are heightened they’ve learned to filter out all the background noise, ears keen for sudden changes in the ambiance but focus otherwise directed voluntarily. It’s like switching channels on the radio.

The steady rhythm of water, lapping at the canal’s stone boundaries as it’s rippled by the autumn breeze. The measured beating of their teeth around a meal. A distant dripping of water from under one of the channel’s bridges. 

Heartbeats on the other side of a wall.

They sigh again, deflated and weary. Keep their head turned to the waterway.

“I can hear you, you know.”

The words sink in between them, gentle yet weighted. They wet their lips and look down at the chopsticks in their hand, tips hanging uncertainly over short grains of rice. “Your heartbeat has a certain rhythm to it. It’s distinct.”

The pulse stutters in Dimitri’s chest, pace quickening, and Xero almost laughs. The corners of their mouth curl up in the smallest of grins, before their face has to fall again. They pick up a piece of meat to examine, hunger altogether dissipated, and furrow their brows. “...What are you trying to do? You keep dragging me around.”

There are no hints of anger in their voice, nor condescension. Just curiosity.  _ This is fun and all, but why? _

Dimitri doesn’t answer right away. They figure it’s overwhelming for him to hear their voice again, so close. So  _ real _ . Truth be told, they’re not ready to hear his, either. Waffling about has got them braced for impact, but it’s a cold comfort with their hands shaking as they are now, chest threatening to burst at the seams in a detonation of raw emotion. They’re astounded they’ve maintained the ability to breathe as evenly as they are.

It seems like Scarface is in the same state, too; he wavers on an inhalation, heart hammering beneath his ribs. Knowing him, he’s taking the time to steady himself so his voice comes out even.

The moment seems to last forever, suspended in time.

And then:

“Over twenty years and the first thing that comes out your mouth is about my internal organs. Same old  _ сука _ , I see.”


End file.
